They split the party, p.7
They Split the Party, page 7
“The goal of this operation is discretion,” Lupolt said with a glare. “The less word spreads about the breakout, the better. And your affiliation with the crown on this matter must remain strictly secret.”
“But we’re still getting paid, right?”
Lupolt’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyebrow twitched, but otherwise, he kept himself in check. “You can name your price.”
“Then I’m in. Guys?”
“Retired or not, I don’t think I could go back to Aenerwin knowing people were in danger and that we might be the only ones who could do something about it,” Church said.
With a nod from Elizabeth, Phoenix gave a hurried answer, “We're in too.”
Ever since Lupolt had first explained what the threat was, Phoenix had looked uncertain about the whole enterprise. But as soon as Church had mentioned returning home, knowing he’d walked away, his eyes had snapped into focus. “Roland might be king, but Corsar’s my home. And I’ve got people I need to be able to face too. We’ll need to make a stop back in Olwin to tell Wings’s family they’ll be taking care of Robyn a little longer than we thought. But we're in.”
That only left Angel, who was staring at all of them with a half-incredulous look.
“Just so we’re clear,” she said. “You’re asking us to stick our necks out for a king and country that actively hates us and does not want our help?”
She’d have laughed in Lupolt’s face if the look on it wouldn’t have made it feel like kicking an already injured puppy. She wasn’t that mean.
It was almost impressive, though. The sheer gall of Lupolt, to ask her to help ease Roland’s burden when Roland didn’t give half of an ungrateful shit what happened to any of them. She wasn’t heartless but she wasn’t so much of a saint that turning her back on this fight would cost her sleep. And unlike Phoenix and Church, she didn’t have a bunch of townsfolk or a wide-eyed toddler she might have to worry about letting down.
The only person she’d have to face was Thalia.
The decision was obvious. Let the king solve his own problems with his handful of knights and overstretched army, while people all over the kingdom who were just trying to live got their shit ruined by a bunch of bad guys she’d helped put away in the first place.
And what was with that anyway? It was the Academy’s job to make sure Oblivion was secure. Ink should have been begging them to help cover her people’s mistake just as much as Lupolt was. But she didn’t have a care in the world, if her smile was anything to go by.
Clearly, everything was fine.
This wasn’t her problem.
“Fuck Roland all the way up his ungrateful ass.” A good start. If she’d left it there, she’d have been free. But for gods knew what reason, she kept talking. “He doesn’t get to tell me who I can and can’t punch, and he doesn’t have a monopoly on protecting the country.”
“I mean, I think he technically can. And does,” Brass said. “You know, being king and all.”
“You know what I fucking mean.”
“You’re joining a fight against the most dangerous individuals on Asher . . . out of spite?” Ink asked.
“Got a problem with that?”
“Oh no. It’s very on brand.”
And like that, Angel was in. Out of spite for Roland, and no other reason.
“If we’re all in agreement then, we should get started,” Lupolt said. At a nod from the king’s right-hand man, Ink dug into the bottomless bag at her hip and began producing folders of stacked parchment.
“The palace and the Academy both have extensive records on escapee sightings and probable land routes, but it’s still largely conjecture, and most of that information is in the palace. Arakawa and I could only smuggle copies of so much of it here. We are working from limited data to track moving targets across the largest landmass on Asher. This will not be easy.”
“That’s an understatement,” Phoenix said.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Church said. “Since you mentioned having trouble finding the escapees back at the palace. If we really need to find out where they all are, there is one person we can ask.”
Phoenix cocked his head, mentally sorting through a list of every person they knew to try and figure out who Church could be referring to. When he finally hit a name that fit the bill, his eyes went wide.
“You think he’ll actually help? He hates us.”
Church shrugged. “I don’t know. But he would know where every prisoner is. And he’s helped us before.”
“Under very different circumstances. Like, we had Snow, for starters.”
“Would you two mind sharing your idea with the rest of the class?” Ink asked.
Phoenix sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Lupolt already looked intrigued.
“The Oracle.”
The High Inquisitive of the Academy balked. Around the rest of the table, eyebrows shot up. Even though the Starbreakers had been the ones to defeat him, everyone at the table knew who the Oracle was and, more to the point, how dangerous he could be, especially when they didn’t have a thief who could hide even from magical sight.
“Really wish Snow were here right about now,” Brass said.
11
KINDRED SPIRITS
The Dice House looked like a stiff breeze could knock it over and smelled like sweat and booze. But it was one of the last rest stops on the roads east of Olwin until the border with Parthica, and it was where Snow had come to find passage to complete her new mission.
Ink hadn’t recruited Snow to help with the Oblivion breakout—at least, not with recapturing the escapees. Instead, the High Inquisitive had Snow chasing a lead on the potential plot behind the breakout, and it hadn’t even altered Snow’s plans all that much. It turned out she and Ink were both after the same thing. Or rather, the same person: Silas Lamark.
Silas was a wanted man for the string of contract assaults, kidnappings, and murders he and his late master, Sir Haegan, had orchestrated and which Snow herself had been a target of. Apparently, Ink and the Academy’s difficulties scrying on the Oblivion escapees bore an eerie resemblance to the difficulties they had scrying on Silas and his remaining allies. Add in the fact that Silas and Haegan’s ultimate goal in their previous plot had been to collect Servitor Hearts and that one of the missing escapees was Pitch, a man infused with the Servitor Heart of Flame, and there were too many coincidences for Ink to rule out. Especially when everything she knew about Oblivion said that the breakout couldn’t have happened without outside help.
The only actual change in Snow’s plans had been that now, she was trying to take Silas alive rather than kill him on sight. Ink wanted answers, thought Silas could give them to her, and wasn’t willing to risk losing those answers to a botched resurrection attempt or the vagaries of a grave speaker.
Snow agreed, but she was still planning on murdering Silas once Ink was done with him. The bastard and his friends had put a contract on her head. And not just her head. All of the Starbreakers. He’d made her and her old company targets for all the underworld. She refused to let that go unanswered, Ink’s investigation be damned.
According to Julian’s contacts, Silas was headed for the southeastern border to cross into Parthica. He had some kind of deal waiting for him there in the capital city of Nikos, but what it was exactly, nobody seemed to know. It didn’t matter to Snow. She had her heading, and somewhere in this dive, there was bound to be someone she could hitch a ride with. One of the servers was already asking around for her. All she had to do now was wait.
She took another sip from her glass of gin, the liquor rapidly cooling as it passed her lips. It had a sweeter taste than she’d expected.
“They started cutting it with syrup here a few years back,” came the explanation as she stared at the glass. “Gin’s only gotten more expensive since Relgen.”
Snow looked up from her drink to see a slim, meticulously fabulous individual being shadowed by a towering brick house of a half-orc.
“Good to see you, Vera,” Snow said.
“Right back at you,” Vera said as they took the seat next to Snow. Their half-orc friend stayed standing. “Buy you another round?”
“What for?”
“Just a gesture for an old friend. And maybe to say thank you,” Vera said, already waving a bartender over. “I heard you killed Pitch.”
Snow nodded her understanding. “Oh. No, he lived. They threw what was left in Oblivion.”
She opted not to add that he’d also since escaped.
“Oh,” Vera said, clearly disappointed. After a moment though, they shrugged. “Close enough, I suppose. Drink’s still yours.”
Vera handed off a short stack of glint, and a second glass was deposited in front of Snow.
“I heard about the fire,” Snow said. Sympathy had never really been her strong suit, especially after the Heart of Ice had taken hold, but since Vera was buying her liquor, she did her best. “If it makes you feel any better, he got his ass handed to him.”
“It does, actually.”
Vera ordered another glass of gin, this time for themself, and took a deep swallow from it. They shook their head in frustration.
“It cost me damn near every favor I had just to get back on my feet after the Lilac went up,” they said. “And I’m still not back in the black.”
Snow cast a glance toward the gambling tables that gave the Dice House its name. “Not sure this is the best place to help with that. Unless you’re trying to drum up business.”
“No. I’m just here to unwind before my next business trip,” Vera said. After a pause, they flashed Snow a knowing look. “Although, if you’re interested, I do have some company that’s your type. Lanky young gentleman, likes to talk. Farm girl with good, strong hands . . .”
“I’m fine right now, thanks,” Snow said. “Maybe next time.”
“Excuse me, um . . . madam?” The server Snow had sent to ask about traveling parties returned, looking anxious. Even more than people usually did when talking to her. “I asked around about any traveling parties going to Nikos, but it seems like there’s no one going quite so far that way. If you’d like, I could see about renting a room for you, and you could stay here until something comes through?”
“No thanks,” Snow said. “I’ll just get a horse and go myself.”
“You’re going to Nikos?” Vera asked.
“There’s someone there I need to kill,” Snow explained.
At the word kill, the server quickly turned and walked in the other direction. He hadn’t been working here long, but he’d still learned it was for the best to keep his nose as far out of this kind of business as possible.
“For business or pleasure?”
Only Vera would have phrased it like that.
“It’s personal,” Snow said.
“Sounds fun.” The one-time hotel owner batted their red-lined eyes. “Would you like a lift?”
Snow cocked an eyebrow, and Vera elaborated. “As it happens, that business trip I’m going on is in Parthica, and Kratz is many wonderful things, but a conversationalist is not one of them.”
The half-orc, who had not stopped hovering a vigilant three feet behind Vera, grunted.
“You’re literally in the business of providing people with company, and you didn’t think to bring someone to talk to on the road?” Snow asked.
“All right, you caught me,” Vera said. “The truth is, it’s a long, unpatrolled road to Nikos, and a single half-orc isn’t always enough to dissuade the desperate. I can always try and hire some glintchasers, but you’re probably worth a whole company of amateurs by yourself. And it’s always better traveling with people you already know.”
“Oh, I see. You’re just using me for my daggers.”
“Don’t make it sound so crass; we’re using each other,” Vera retorted. “You need a ride, I need some travel insurance. Everybody wins. And I would honestly love to catch up. So, what do you say?”
Snow’s usual reasons for traveling with others were practical: whenever she could, she preferred to conceal her movements inside those of others. She didn’t do it for the company. But there were certainly worse people to travel with than Vera. Hells, she’d spent seven years traveling with four of them. All things considered, it was a decent deal.
When Snow still hadn’t answered, Vera added, “I’ve got wine for the trip . . .”
Snow sighed. “What vintage?”
“Atta girl!”
12
ENTRAPMENT
A throbbing pain in Pitch’s temples greeted him as he came to on a hard stone floor. The last thing he remembered was that Ink had paid him a visit. A few minutes after she left, everything had gone nuts. Cells were busted open. Inmates rioted. Magic started running wild. Something tore the door off his cell. And then, nothing.
No. There was something else. A voice.
You’re coming with me.
Pitch groaned as he tried to stretch out the kinks in every one of his muscles. With every pop of his joints, a little pulse of warmth radiated through his body as the Heart of Flames slowly woke up within him. He was in a small room with three solid walls and one with a row of iron bars, eliciting an annoyed scoff from him. From one cage to another.
Except this time, none of the other safeguards from Oblivion were in place. No guards in sight. No enchanted chains. Whoever put him here was about to feel very stupid.
The fiery orange of Pitch’s eyes began to dance as his excitement grew and flames licked at his fingertips. Both of his hands completely began to glow; first a dull red orange, then brighter orange. Finally, just as they were reaching near white-hot heat, he swung the flat of his hand like a blade, cleaving through the bars of his new cell as if they weren’t even there. With a second slash, the bars fell away, smoking at their ends, and he was free.
With a chuckle, Pitch sauntered out of the cell and into the wider hall beyond. He couldn’t see any windows, but the space was generously lit by multiple lightstone fixtures in the walls and ceiling.
The hall was a short one, ending in a single door. But as soon as he set his sights on it, panels within the ceiling slid open, and loaded crossbows descended from them before training on him.
With a high-pitched whistle, both weapons loosed bolts that transformed into balls of pure force, striking Pitch dead in the chest and knocking him onto his back. The flames on his hands snuffed out, and a hoarse wheeze came from his throat as the wind was knocked from his lungs. He spasmed on the ground, trying and failing to suck down air.
The crossbows reloaded themselves, their arms pulling back of their own accord as energy coalesced along them into newly loaded bolts.
“Don’t get up, or they’ll shoot again.”
The door opened, and a short, somewhat haggard-looking man entered. He was light-skinned, with sand-colored hair shaved on the sides and cropped short on top. He wore a chain vest over a loose-fitted shirt while a pair of shortswords joined by a cord hung from his hip.
Pitch’s wheezing turned to coughing as he gagged on his own spit, but finally as his throat cleared, he was able to draw a normal breath. His eyes flitted between the stranger and the crossbows in the ceiling still aiming for him. Catching his breath, he decided not to immediately kill the man.
“Who the fuck are you?” he coughed.
“Someone who needs to ask you some questions.”
Pitch was absolutely dumbstruck. He was no stranger to rude introductions. In fact, he was usually the one making them. But between the cage, the crossbows, and whatever the hell had been done to him to make him feel like his head was full of bricks, this had to be the crowning achievement of bad first impressions.
“Fuck off.”
The man frowned. “Loose.”
The crossbows shot a second round of bolts, knocking Pitch flat on his back again. As Pitch rolled on the ground, his new captor crouched down next to him.
“I’d prefer your cooperation. But I don’t need it. Give me what I need, and I can let you go.”
Pitch glared at the man, feeling the heat in his chest sputtering and struggling to grow without a proper breath. The crossbows reloaded once again.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re an asshole?” Pitch asked.
“Several times.”
“Yeah, well, they were right.”
The man shook his head and stood back up, putting a bit of distance between him and Pitch.
“I hope you understand this isn’t personal or vindictive. Given your imprisonment, speaking with you was difficult to arrange. Considering the circumstances and your . . . volatile nature, it was safer to contain you until we knew you could be trusted.”
Pitch recalled the chaos in the prison in the moments before he’d blacked out. Had this man arranged that? In spite of the pain from the last volley of shots, his curiosity was piqued. Not to mention, given the choice between more crossbow bolts or hearing out the jackass, he was willing to choose the latter. For now.
“Trust, huh?” Pitch glanced at the crossbows again. “You know that goes both ways.”
The man narrowed his eyes. A long silence passed between them as the two sized each other up, not breaking eye contact.
“Disarm.”
The tension in the crossbow arms relaxed, and they retreated back into the ceiling, panels sliding back over them. The man folded his hands behind his back.
Pitch staggered onto his feet and dusted himself off. “You got a name?”
“Silas.”
“Great,” Pitch said. “What do you want?”
Instead of answering, Silas turned back to the door behind him, the only visible way out of this place.
“Bring it in,” he ordered.
The door opened again, and a pair of identical women wearing matching bracelets entered. One of them carried a segmented bronze cylinder about two feet long and two inches thick. She handed it to Silas without a word, and, after casting a wary look toward Pitch and a gesture from Silas, they both left the room as quickly as they’d entered. As much as Pitch wanted to ask about them, he had a more pressing question.
